


Teasing

by pathera



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Masturbation, Matt's Super Senses are Not Useful Here, Multi, Sort of voyeurism, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-24
Updated: 2015-04-24
Packaged: 2018-03-25 12:15:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3810028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pathera/pseuds/pathera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, Matt wishes his senses were a little less sharp. It would make it so much easier to ignore what's going on between Foggy and Karen if they were. </p><p>As it is, he's fairly sure he's going to lose his mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Teasing

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Дразниловка](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4630368) by [LaVie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaVie/pseuds/LaVie)



> Oh god, don't look at me too closely guys, I don't write this stuff. But I sold my soul to this show and this is what happens. 
> 
> Written for [ this](http://daredevilkink.dreamwidth.org/725.html?thread=58581#cmt58581) prompt at the kinkmeme: If Matt can tell what Foggy had for lunch two days ago, then it's pretty much impossible for Foggy & Karen to hook up w/out Matt knowing, right?
> 
> Optional:  
> \- Matt jerking himself off, thinking about it (bonus points for guilt)  
> \- Foggy realizing Matt knows & doing things to deliberately drive him crazy  
> \- 1000 gold stars for both of the above leading to an ot3

Matt can smell it from the stairs, faint and growing stronger as he goes up. In the hallway outside of the office he has to stop, leaning against the wall because it is like a cloud of perfume here, the sweet, tangy scent of arousal, the muskier, earthier scent of sex, the current of sweat and cum mixed in.

He clicks his cane against the floor louder than usual, can hear rustling from inside the office, a quiet whisper of _shit_ , and he goes slow, taking his time on opening the door. By the time he does, Karen is settled at her desk and Foggy is in his office, the door cracked open, and the scent is heady in here, makes Matt’s head swim a little. He can taste it in the air, the sweet-bitter tang of it. The room is warm, and Karen is doing her best to keep her breath even but it’s still ragged at the edges, and both of their hearts are racing, loud and giddy.

Karen clears her throat. “Hey, Matt,” she says. Even does a good job of sounding normal, but she squeezes her legs together under the desk and _god_ , she’s still wet, her thighs slippery beneath her skirt, he can smell it, he can _hear_ it. Foggy comes to lean in the doorway. His boxers are a little damp, the wet material dragging against his cock, the head of which is still wet and leaking.

“Hey, buddy,” Foggy says. He always has the same note in his voice when he gets laid, something bright and cheerful and warm, used to come home from dates with Marci with it threading through his voice. “Didn’t know you were coming in so early.”

“Thought I’d get a head start,” Matt says evenly. “Got a few things to go over.” He heads to his office, hand on the doorknob. “Call if you need me,” he says, and pulls the door shut behind him. He sinks into his chair, slouching down lower than usual. Outside, Karen and Foggy don’t say anything to each other, no, they wouldn’t, not where he could hear, but he does hear the brush of skin against skin—hands touching, he thinks, just fingertips sliding gently over fingertips—and then he hears the creak of Foggy’s door closing, hears Karen shifting paper, the wheels of her chair grazing across the floor as she pulls herself closer to her desk. It’s quiet, just the normal shuffling and clacking of keys and whir of computers running, their heartbeats settling back to a normal pace, still just a bit quick.

Matt’s is still beating faster though. He closes his eyes, taking a deep breath, and that—that doesn’t help at _all_. That does the exact _opposite_ of helping. He groans softly, letting his head flop back. He just breathes for a moment, lets the scents wash over him, the vanilla of Karen’s shampoo and the light floral of her perfume, the spicy scent of Foggy’s aftershave, the scent of them _together_ , mixing and mingling and oh, it’s so good. Foggy’s hands tracing their way down Karen’s bare shoulders, up her thighs, his leg pressing in between hers, her nails scraping across his neck, running through his hair, digging into him as he lifts her up—no. Matt straightens up, gripping the edge of his desk tight. He is _not_ doing this, he is _not_ thinking about his friends together and he is sure as _hell_ not getting hard in his office.

He shakes his head and boots up his computer, taking shallow breaths until the scent begins to fade and he can finally think straight.

+

On Tuesday, Foggy pulls Karen into the kitchen and kisses the hell out of her. Matt can hear it, Karen’s little gasp, the smack of their lips together, the soft, wet slide of it. Foggy presses her against the counter, Matt knows by the little thud, the muffled clatter of a stray limb bumping against the coffee pot. Karen giggles, soft and smothered as soon as it escapes, and Foggy makes the huffed sound of a laugh stifled before it’s ever born, and then they part. Karen comes out first, straightening her clothes; Foggy lingers behind, pouring himself a glass of juice.

Matt pretends he doesn’t hear any of it.

+

On Wednesday, Karen and Foggy take a long lunch. They invite Matt with them, of course, but he smiles and declines, professing that he’s not hungry. He doesn’t want to hear their knees brushing under a table, the soft kicks as they play footsie, the slide of a thumb over the other’s hand. Flirting has a scent all its own, one part wanting, one part desire, lighter and more delicate than the thick, robust roundness of full arousal. Matt doesn’t want to sit there next to them as it builds all around them, doesn’t want to hear the cadences of their voices, buoyant and arch with innuendo that now carries depth to it. He doesn’t want to hear Karen’s giggle, airier than her usual laugh, like the bubbles in champagne; doesn’t want to hear that warm, smooth lilt like honey and good whiskey in Foggy.

When they come back, he wishes that he had gone with them. If he had, they wouldn’t walk through the door shoulder to shoulder, Foggy laughing as he careens bumps playfully against Karen. They wouldn’t smell like wood smoke and apple blossom and copper and sweat and cum. The air wouldn’t taste sweet and bitter, and the collar of Foggy’s shirt wouldn’t be sliding against hickeys that Karen sucked into his skin. Foggy’s mouth wouldn’t be slick—Matt knows where that mouth has been, and it makes him shiver with want that he shouldn’t feel. He _can’t_ feel.

“Have a nice lunch?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Karen says, tucking her hair behind her ear. “We missed you, though.”

“Would’ve been better if you were there,” Foggy agrees.

The funny thing is, Matt doesn’t hear a lie.

+

On Thursday, the come in together. Karen isn’t wearing the same clothes as yesterday—they stopped by her apartment, probably, unless she took a change of clothes with her, but Matt knows she spent the night anyway. She smells like Foggy’s apartment, it coats her skin, sinks into her hair. Her breath has the same minty freshness as Foggy’s, her skin seems to have soaked in his aftershave.

Foggy has long scratches down his back, because apparently Karen has sharp nails. She has a bruise sucked into her inner thigh; Matt can hear her little groan every time she shifts, can hear the spike in her heartbeat, a beautiful mix of pleasure and pain that makes him grit his teeth.

“How was your night?” Karen asks, leaning against the doorway to Matt’s office.

“Uneventful,” he says. He got nowhere closer to Fisk, but he did stop a mugging. He’d hoped the feeling of the mugger’s bones breaking under his hands would relieve some of his tension, but if anything it made him feel worse, stretched and wound too tight with no way to uncoil himself. “Yours?”

“Same,” she says. Her heart thuds quicker in the lie, and he can hear the smile in her voice.

“Good,” he says.

+

By Friday, Matt wants to kill something. He goes to the gym and punches until his hands ache, but it isn’t good enough. He puts on the mask and hunts down a new lead, slams the man against a wall and cracks his skull against the ground and knocks out a few of his teeth before he finally talks. Matt leaves him unconscious in an alley. He has a little more information, nothing earth-shattering, but he doesn’t feel satisfied. He feels keyed up, itching under his skin. He goes looking for another fight, but the streets are quiet tonight and there is a storm moving in.

At home, he peels himself out of his suit, putting it away methodically. He drags himself into the shower, hoping the water pressure will soothe away some of the ache, some of the tension. He leans against the wall, the water cascading over him, and he closes his eyes.

God, he can _still_ smell them. It has pervaded his pores, gotten into his senses, and it’s all he can think about, all he can smell. He thinks of the sounds they would make together. Karen would be loud, he knows she would, she would be demanding and loud and know exactly what she wanted and Foggy would make it his mission to render her incoherent, to make her gasp and shudder. Foggy, Matt knows from sharing a room with him, is loudest when he is trying to be quiet, incapable of keeping from groaning and grunting, and there’s nothing he loves more than dragging sound out of his partner.

Matt is hard, all the tension in his body redirected to one place, and he stops trying to fight it. Moves his hand down to his cock, gasping as he fists it. He wonders how Karen’s hand would feel, her long fingers wrapping around him, if her grip would be firm or loose, if she would start slow and drag it out or fast and leave him on the edge. He imagines Foggy’s broad hand joining hers, his hands always so warm on Matt’s arm or on his back; he can’t even imagine that heat on his cock. They would coordinate, the two of them, move in time, or switch off, Karen would kiss him and leave him breathless while Foggy’s hand moved faster and faster and then his hand would drop away and it would be his mouth instead and—

Matt comes hard enough to leave him shuddering under water that is starting to run cold, his groan deep and loud, reverberating off the tile. He stands there for a few minutes, letting the cold water clear his head. The tension is gone, but it’s guilt prickling in him now, coiling in the pit of his stomach where his lust has vacated.

There’s a lot of things he thought he’d go to hell for. He never imagined this though.

+

On Saturday, Foggy and Karen bully him into going out for drinks with them. It’s as bad as he thought lunch would be on Wednesday.

They corner him in, sitting on either side of him instead of next to each other, and every time their knees bump together they brush his as well. It’s enough to drive him mad, just that faintest touch, not meant for him, and every time he thinks of last night his stomach aches. He keeps his head down, doesn’t want to look directly at either of them because they might see it on his face.

Karen pours them another round, nudging the glass into Matt’s hands. “The night’s young,” she says.

He drinks. Enough alcohol and it’ll dull his senses, just enough for this to be tolerable. He’s happy for them, he _is_ , Foggy is his best friend and Karen has become so important, and they deserve to be happy together. He’d never get in the way of that, no matter how good they smell and sound and feel, they aren’t his to—

Karen’s hand is on his knee.

Matt tilts his head. He has no frame of reference for this. Her hand is light and delicate and she grazes her thumb over his knee, a gentle, innocent caress that goes straight to his cock. _Shit_ , he thinks, and then Foggy throws an arm around his shoulder, heavy and warm and Matt wants to burrow into his side.

“Matt,” Foggy says, as seriously as one can when there is whiskey in their system. “We’ve got to tell you something.”

“Okay,” Matt says. Karen’s hand hasn’t moved, and Foggy’s hand is almost innocently trailing across Matt’s back.

“Karen and I,” Foggy starts, “well, we’ve kind of—“

“I know, Foggy,” Matt says. Better to get it over with than dance around it.

Foggy nods, then angles in closer to Matt, so close that his breath passes warm over Matt’s skin. Karen’s hand moves higher and Matt swallows, squeezing his legs together. “We know you know,” Foggy whispers in his ear.

Matt knows many things. What is going on here is not one of them.

He puts his hand on Karen’s, stopping her from moving it any higher. She responds twisting her hand in his grip, lacing their fingers together before he even has time to think. He lets that go for a moment, focusing on Foggy’s mouth so close to skin. “What?” he says. His tongue feels thick and it’s his own heartbeat that he hears, thudding painfully in his ears.

Foggy cages him in, pressing closer against his side, resting one of his hands on Matt’s other knee. “Did you hear us? The first day? We tried to be loud enough.”

Matt swallows. “Smell,” he answers.

“Tell us what that was like,” Foggy says, his voice low and intent. The kind of voice that can swallow a man, and Matt has never heard Foggy sound like it before. He wants nothing more than to hear it again.

“Do you—do you know how _good_ you smell?” Matt asks. He leans close to Foggy, pushing into his space. “I could smell the cum on your cock,” he hisses. “Still leaking. I could smell her on you, on your mouth, on your fingers.” He turns his head towards Karen, who leans in almost instinctively. “I could smell how wet you were.”

“Matt,” she says softly. Her legs spread a little. “What do you smell _now_?”

He blinks. Breathes.

 _Oh_.

The want is rising off both of them like steam. Karen is wet already; if he pressed his fingers to her he would find they slid in easily. Foggy is in no better state, half-hard and pressing against his jeans.

“My apartment is closest,” he finds himself saying. Foggy is out of his seat so fast Matt thinks he’ll get whiplash, and Karen digs through her purse for cash to throw down for a tip.

“About damn time,” Foggy says, urging Matt up and out of his seat, his touch warm even through clothing. “Thought you’d crack days ago.”

Matt stops. “You—were you—you were doing this on _purpose_ ,” he hisses.

“Can’t keep a secret from you, buddy,” Foggy says smugly.

Matt leans in to him, tilting his head up so his lips are right by Foggy’s ear. “You,” he says, “are going to _beg_ by the time I’m through with you.”

Foggy’s breath hitches and he makes a strangled sound. His cock hardens more than it already is; walking is going to be difficult and Matt has no sympathy whatsoever. Karen links arms with both of them, tugging them towards the door.

“Play nice, boys,” she murmurs.

 “Don’t think I’ve forgotten about you,” Matt says. “You are in so much trouble.”

She licks her lips, raking her nails gently across his arm, the sensation sending shudders through him. “Promise?” she asks, tilting her head to the side.

He grins. “Oh yes.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Turning the Tables (I Spin You Right Round, Baby)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6523792) by [infinidensity (ekaterin)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ekaterin/pseuds/infinidensity)




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